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“That mole,” said Don Quixote, “according to the correspondence that exists between those on the face and those on the body, must be matched by another that Dulcinea has on the broad part of her thigh, on the same side as the one on her face, but the hairs you have mentioned are very long for a mole.”

“Well, I can tell your grace,” responded Sancho, “that they looked like they’d been born there.”

“I can believe it, my friend,” replied Don Quixote, “because nature put nothing on Dulcinea that was not perfect and complete, and so, if she had a hundred moles like the one you describe, on her they would not be moles but shining moons and stars. But tell me, Sancho: the saddle that seemed like a packsaddle to me, the one that you adjusted, was it a simple saddle or a sidesaddle?”

“It was,” responded Sancho, “just a high-bowed saddle, with a covering so rich it must have been worth half a kingdom.”

“And to think I did not see all of that, Sancho!” said Don Quixote. “Now I say it again, and shall say it a thousand more times: I am the most unfortunate of men.”

When he heard the foolish things said by his master, who had been so exquisitely deceived, it was all the scoundrel Sancho could do to hide his laughter. Finally, after much more conversation between them, they re-mounted their animals and followed the road to Zaragoza, where they hoped to arrive in time to take part in the solemn festival held in that celebrated city every year. But before they arrived, certain things happened to them, so numerous, great, and unusual that they deserve to be described and read, as will soon be seen.

CHAPTER XI

Regarding the strange adventure that befell the valiant Don Quixote with the cart or wagon of The Assembly of Death

Don Quixote was thoughtful as he went on his way, considering the awful trick the enchanters had played on him when they turned his lady Dulcinea into the ugly figure of the peasant girl, and he could not imagine what remedy he might have that would return her to her original state; these thoughts distracted him so much that, without realizing it, he dropped the reins, and Rocinante, sensing the freedom that had been given to him, stopped at every step to graze on the green grass that grew so abundantly in those fields. Sancho brought his master back from his preoccupations by saying:

“Señor, sorrows were made not for animals but for men; but if men feel them too much, they turn into animals; your grace should restrain yourself, and come back to yourself, and pick up Rocinante’s reins, and liven up and rouse yourself, and show the bravery that knights errant ought to have. What the devil is this? What kind of mood is this? Are we here or in France?1 Let Satan carry off all the Dulcineas in the world, for the well-being of a single knight errant is worth more than all the enchantments and transformations on earth.”

“Be quiet, Sancho,” responded Don Quixote in a voice that was not particularly faint. “Be quiet, I say, and do not speak blasphemies against that enchanted lady, for I alone am to blame for her affliction and misfortune: her tribulations were born of the envy those villains have for me.”

“That’s what I say, too,” responded Sancho. “If you saw her once and see her now, how could your heart not weep?”

“That is something you can rightfully say, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “for you saw her in the fullness and completeness of her beauty; the enchantment did not go so far as to cloud your sight or hide her beauty from you: it directs the strength of its poison only against me and my eyes. But with it all, Sancho, I have realized something, which is that you described her beauty to me very badly, for if I remember correctly, you said that she had eyes like pearls, and eyes that seem to be of pearl are more appropriate to bream than to a lady; my belief is that Dulcinea’s eyes must be like green emeralds and almond-shaped, with two celestial arcs as eyebrows; you should take those pearls from her eyes and move